


The Lights And Buzz

by dear_monday



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Gym Class Heroes, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Love Actually Setting, Christmas, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 01:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5520326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dear_monday/pseuds/dear_monday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas in New York City. Pete Wentz is a bigshot politician who wears dark shirts to cover up his tattoos and gets into trouble defending the honor of his new assistant, Patrick. Stay-at-home dad Ray worries about how cozy record label boss Mikey is getting with the gorgeous new intern. Joe the waiter hates his job and is definitely moving to France - for real, this time. Gerard the successful writer and recovering alcoholic flees to rural Italy with a broken heart and tries not to ogle his gorgeous handyman. Gabe and Travis are body doubles who hit it off under the watchful eye of Maja, the scary blonde director. Getting naked and acting out several hours of athletic sex? No problem. Working up the nerve to ask for a phone number? Mission fucking impossible. Brendon and Ryan are newly married and Ryan's best friend Spencer has never exactly warmed to Brendon, but now Brendon needs a favor: the wedding video has disappeared, and Spencer is the only person who has a copy. A <i>Love Actually</i> AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lights And Buzz

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [Michelle](http://deanghostchester.tumblr.com) and [Jackie](http://popunkzayn.tumblr.com) for the ~~peer pressure~~ encouragement ♥ this fic wouldn't have been written without them. I started writing this about two weeks ago, but I wanted to finish it in time for Christmas (since I didn't get myself organised in time for the actual holiday fic exchange thing, oops), so apologies for any mistakes my hasty proof-read didn't catch! It's been a sprint, but I made it, just about. Merry Christmas, everybody! Title from The Lights And Buzz by Jack's Mannequin, warning for mentions of infidelity and past alcoholism.

The wedding is beautiful. It's simple and unfussy and all their friends are there, and if there's a notable absence of parents in the crowd, well. It's not the end of the world. Brendon says "I do," and kisses Ryan and smiles until his face hurts, and it's the closest thing to a perfect day Brendon can imagine.

 

At least, that's what he's going to tell his children one day.

 

In fact, it's a nightmare. Between the fuckup with the catering, the disaster with the wedding band, the unfortunate incident with the priest, the near miss with the rings, the weird death flu that seems to be making the rounds of the groomsmen and the minor car accident outside the church, Brendon has begun to feel like he's living on one of those cursed movie sets. No one has actually died yet, but if the priest asks why neither Ryan nor Brendon's parents are there one more time, that might not be the case for much longer.

 

They're clawing it back, though. Everyone who actually needs to be there arrives in time for the ceremony, just about, some of them heavily dosed up with cold medication. They weren't sure if the video guy was going to make it so Ryan's best friend Spencer has his camera, just in case. Jon Walker (who, in utmost seriousness, declared himself maid of honor the day Ryan and Brendon announced that they were engaged) doesn't actually seem to be doing a whole lot, but he has this weird stoner zen thing whereby his presence alone is a calming influence, so he's probably helping, somehow. At one point, Brendon thinks Jon is going throw up right there in the aisle, but the danger passes and the tiled floor, Brent's shoes and the wedding video are all spared. Spencer works for a record label, so he's even managed to round up a handful of musicians who are going to pass themselves off as an upstanding wedding band, and with any luck no one will even notice. Once the immediate state of emergency has passed, Brendon has to find a supply closet, sit down with his head between his knees and just breathe for a minute.

 

"Hey."

 

Brendon feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up, and feels something in his chest unclench. It's Ryan, smiling down at him. It's worth it, Brendon reminds himself. It's Ryan.

 

"Hey," Brendon says, with a shaky smile. "What's up, you getting cold feet?"

 

"My feet are fucking toasty warm, thanks," Ryan says, in his best cut-you-dead voice. Brendon manages a weak giggle. He can do this. With Ryan - Ryan and his awful paisley shirts and his weirdo sense of humor - by his side, Brendon is invincible.

 

"Seriously," Ryan says, crouching down in front of Brendon and smoothing his hair back. "You look like you're gonna hurl. You okay?"

 

"Yeah," says Brendon. He leans into the gentle pressure of Ryan's hand. "I'm good. Just needed some space to breathe."

 

"Okay," says Ryan, because he knows Brendon and he knows when to leave things be, and god, Brendon loves him for that. For other things too, of course, like his pretty mouth and the way his voice gets all rough when he's just woken up and his secret pancake batter formula, but it's definitely a factor.

 

"Ry? You in here? Oh." Spencer's face appears in the doorway, then goes carefully blank when he sees Brendon. Whatever, it's not a new thing, and Brendon is absolutely not going to let Spencer Smith's hate-on for him ruin his wedding day. "The guests are all here. We're ready."

 

He disappears again, and Brendon squeezes Ryan's hand. "Come on," he says, and this time he cracks a real smile. This has been a long time coming. "Let's go get married."

 

 

 

 

It was a cute wedding reception, Joe has to give it that. The two grooms both had stupid, dopey grins on their faces the whole time, and the band of begged, borrowed and stolen musicians actually put on a pretty decent show. The fancy guitar-shaped cake was a nice touch, too. But being a waiter pretty much sucks no matter the circumstances, and Joe is tired and cold and he just wants to go home. He doesn't have the energy to change back into his jeans and hoodie, so he just throws on his coat over the cheap tux, grabs his backpack and heads for the subway.

 

Several stops later, he emerges back into the hazy light, dragging himself up the stairs to the sidewalk. It's a cold, overcast day, but the streets are busy. What he needs, he thinks, is a change. While he walks, he digs in his coat pockets for his cell phone and pulls up Pete's office number. Joe isn't entirely clear on what Pete does these days, but he knows two things: firstly, it's something in politics, and secondly, Pete is kind of a big deal these days. Pete always makes time for Joe, though, even if Joe sometimes has to get creative in order to get hold of him.

 

"You've called Pete Wentz's office, how may I direct your call?" The voice is male, pissy as all hell, with a familiar Midwestern lilt.

 

"Uh, yeah," Joe says, pitching his voice down. "This is Doctor... House. Man. Doctor Houseman. I'm sorry to call during office hours but I really need to speak with Pete. It's, uh, a matter of urgency."

 

The bitchy voice on the end of the line doesn't sound convinced, but puts Joe through to Pete anyway.

 

"Doctor Houseman," Pete says, by way of a hello. "Bro. Seriously?"

 

"Fuck off," says Joe, easily, sidestepping a gaggle of wide-eyed tourists. He figures that now Pete is too important for his lackeys to cuss him out, the burden falls squarely to Joe. "Your new assistant is a bitch, dude."

 

"Joseph Trohman, do not talk that way about the man I love."

 

Joe spends an enjoyable few minutes grilling Pete for information, during which he learns that Pete's new assistant Patrick rocks a trucker hat, knows how to kill a man with just his bare hands and a spreadsheet and has an ass that Pete could write poetry about.

 

"Sounds dreamy," says Joe. "Anyway. I didn't call you to talk about Patrick's sweet ass."

 

"You should have," says Pete earnestly, and sighs a little lovelorn sigh.

 

"Well, I didn't. I called to tell you I'm leaving. I'm going to Europe. Maybe France. For real, this time."

 

"For real, for real? Or for real like the last time?"

 

Joe scowls and tugs at his bow tie with his free hand. He hates the monkey suit he has to wear for these stupid things. "Yeah, okay, maybe--"

 

"Or the time before that," Pete continues blithely. "Or--"

 

"Alright, asshole, you've made your point. But I mean it this time, okay? I'm going. So we should hang out before I go, because I'm gonna be too busy to call you when I'm having crazy sex with a bunch of supermodels. On a bed made of weed."

 

Pete laughs at him again, that obnoxious, braying laugh that Joe has come to know and love over the years, and they make plans to get together the following week. Joe hangs up feeling like he's taken the first step towards his glorious new life. He's gonna do it this time. Really.

 

 

 

 

"No shit," says Travie, and Gabe nods solemnly, even though Travie can't really see it.

 

"On my mother's grave," Gabe says. "Two hours to get here today. _Two hours_."

 

"NYC, man," says Travie, with an easy shrug. Or at least, it looks sort of like a shrug. It's hard to tell, given that he's currently ass-up on the bed with his face pressed into the pillow.

 

"Fucking tourists," Gabe agrees, still pretending to thrust against Travie's ass, but before he can get into his speech about those fucking suitcases on wheels, Maja's voice cuts through the noise and bustle of the set.

 

"Okay! That's great, boys. Gabe, just a little more to the left? Perfect. And could you go a bit faster?"

 

Gabe obligingly speeds up.

 

"Better, thanks," Maja calls. "That's it, we need you really plowing him into the mattress."

 

"Yes Ma'am," mutters Gabe, and Travie cracks up. Gabe's can feel him shaking where his hands are curled around Travie's hips.

 

The lighting guys make a few more adjustments, and Maja calls for the next position. Gabe sits back on his heels and maybe sort of checks out Travie's ass as he does the same, folding those long legs under him. What? It's a nice ass.

 

"What's next?" Travie calls over to Maja as the crew begin to rearrange the lights, and Maja consults her clipboard. Gabe is more than a little bit scared of Maja.

 

"Uh... oh, here it is. If we could get you up against the wall, Travis, and Gabe, you're on your knees in front of him. Okay?"

 

They both clamber off the bed and Travie rolls his head on his shoulders, shakes the stiffness out of his legs. It's not just that he's hot, okay, Gabe has fucked a lot of hot people and pretended to fuck a lot more on camera, there's just something about the loose-limbed way Travie moves.

 

"I'm getting too old for this," Travie says, but he's grinning, that big, soft, slightly dopey grin that Gabe finds horribly endearing.

 

"Don't know what you're bitching about, I'm gonna be on my knees for the next half hour," Gabe says, and Travie makes a sympathetic face before shuffling over to the X marked on the floor in duct tape.

 

Gabe opens his mouth, then closes it again. His plan is to be chill. Travie's just so fucking cool, that's the only way Gabe is going to get to him. One day, though, when the time is right, he's going to sack up and ask for Travie's number, and it is going to be _awesome_.

 

 

 

 

Gerard knows right away that his temporary landlord-slash-handyman is going to be A Problem.

 

The owners of the cottage are a nice elderly couple, and Gerard is used to being left to his own devices when he rents the place. It's in the heart of rural Tuscany, for heaven's sake, Gerard originally chose it because he _wanted_ to be left alone. He normally comes out here once or twice a year, when he needs to clear his head and get some real work done, and it works just fine. He stayed for a month last year when he was getting sober, and he's here now to put as many miles as possible between himself and the ugliest breakup of his adult life. Unfortunately, Signor Iero fell off his stepladder when he was trying to clear the leaves out of the guttering and is now several hours away in a hospital in Florence, awaiting a hip replacement. At least, that was what Gerard understood from the crackly transatlantic phone call the night before he was due to leave. For all he knows, Signor Iero is actually in hospital with a dragon-slaying injury or has belatedly joined the NASA space program. So, instead, his son has taken time off work to come and do some work on the house that wasn't quite finished in time for Gerard's last-minute arrival.

 

Gerard was expecting someone who looked like a middle-aged farm boy, and that was fine. More than fine, in fact. Gerard is here to work on The Umbrella Academy and soothe his broken heart with pasta and coffee, and that's it. Gerard was not expecting Iero junior to be... well. Beautiful and tattooed with a mouth like a wet dream and a habit of working shirtless. Gerard has taken to hanging about inside, trying not to ogle too obviously and feeling like the skeevy housewife drooling over the pool boy.

 

The one bright spot in all of this is that he doesn't seem to speak much English, so at least Gerard is spared the awkward small talk. He's grateful for small mercies.

 

It's--Gerard doesn't wear a watch while he's out here so he doesn't know what time it is, but it can't be much later than five o' clock and night is falling fast, the moon rising up over the hills and the color bleeding out of the twilit sky. Frank is out there now, standing on the veranda in just a hoodie even though it's cold as shit out there and gazing out over the darkening hillsides. Gerard steels himself. He's going out there. He's going to do it.

 

He pushes open the door and steps through before he can talk himself out of it. "Hey," he says, softly.

 

Frank turns to look at him and his face splits into a broad smile. "Gerard. _Salve_."

 

"Smoke? Uh." Gerard gropes for the translation, then gives up and holds up his slightly flattened pack of Marlboro reds instead. Frank makes grabby hands, and Gerard apparently goes temporarily insane because his brain decides wholly without his say-so that it'd be a really smooth move not only to give Frank a cigarette, but to light it for him like something out of a forties movie. First, he can't get his lighter out of the pocket of his jeans, and by the time he does, he's so uncomfortable and so aware of Frank's eyes on him that he thumbs it a lot harder than necessary and the flame whooshes up and almost sets his hair on fire. He yelps and leaps backwards, a feat of athleticism that would have impressed even his high school gym teacher but has Frank paralyzed with laughter. Scowling and wishing fervently for the ground to swallow him up, Gerard hands over the cigarette.

 

" _Grazie_ ," Frank murmurs, taking it and raising it to his lips. Gerard busies himself with his lighter and another smoke, and they stand together in comfortable silence for a little while. Frank looks so comfortable, forearm braced against the veranda rail, outlined against the night sky. Gerard itches to draw him, the way his hair curls down the nape of his neck, the clean lines of his profile. Frank seems to rest easy in his own skin in a way that makes Gerard deeply jealous. Maybe, he can't help thinking, if I'd been more like Frank, Mike wouldn't have--

 

He stops himself. Don't think about that, says a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like his brother's. You couldn't have known Mike was going to turn out to be a cheating scumbag.

 

Frank looks over at Gerard and says something that sounds... sounds real fucking nice, actually, but fuck if Gerard has any idea what it means. He must look as lost as he feels, because Frank huffs a laugh and repeats it more slowly, this time with additional sign language. He points to Gerard, then gestures around them at the house and the surrounding countryside, then shrugs, raising his hands in mock-confusion.

 

"Oh!" says Gerard, suddenly getting it. "Why am I here? Okay. I, uh." He stops, and his chest feels tight and painful for a moment. "I had..." he starts again, and flounders almost immediately. What on earth is the Italian word for boyfriend? " _Hombre_ ," he says, finally, knowing full well that it's a) not the right word and b) fucking Spanish, not even Italian, and just hoping that Frank will understand anyway.

 

Frank stares at him for a long moment, then snaps his fingers and points, like they're playing charades and he's just figured it out. "Oh, oh! _Un amichetto_." At Gerard's blank look, he raises one hand to his mouth and mimes a blowjob, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Gerard sputters indignantly for several seconds, then gives in. Frank's laughter is infectious.

 

"Yeah," he says, once the giggles have subsided. "And one day I came home and found him--uh, my _amichetto con un... altro_... man," he finishes lamely, no longer laughing, his chest ringing with the echo of the ache.

 

Frank seems to understand, though, because his lip curls and he says something that Gerard doesn't understand, gesturing dismissively with the hand holding his cigarette. " _Merda, mi dispiace_. He is asshole," he says nonchalantly.

 

Gerard licks his lips. "Yeah," he says, quietly. "Yeah, he was."

 

God, he must sound so pathetic. Frank is making a sad face, and he changes the subject. "What about you?" he says, pointing to Frank. " _Amichetto?_ Or a girl? Uh... _señorita?_ Oh, fuck, no, that's Spanish again, isn't it?"

 

Frank laughs, but not unkindly. "No," he says. " _Nessuno_." And he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and Gerard feels a little lighter.

 

 

 

 

Pete doesn't know how he racked up enough good karma to deserve Patrick Stump. He's efficient and organized, he puts up with precisely none of Pete's bullshit and he has the face of a baby angel. By this point, Pete is pretty thoroughly convinced that theirs is a great love for the ages, and things are only going to get better when Patrick gets with the program and realizes this too. For now, Pete is trying to be a good boss, which means no corny office-related pickup lines and definitely no luring his new assistant into the supply closet to make out. It also means no telling Patrick about the five separate occasions on which Pete has been extremely rude to important people because they've suggested that Pete is crazy for not wanting a pretty girl around the place instead. The one time Pete did that, Patrick went so red Pete thought he was going to explode.

 

"Pete," says Patrick, in a flat, hopeless sort of voice. "Pete. Are you even listening to me."

 

"Every word," Pete assures him. "Except, uh. Go over that last part again?"

 

Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose. "Please let me answer the office phone in future, okay?" he says. "I had to call in, like, three favors to stop the radio station running the sound bite of you telling the guy to 'suck my dick, Joe.'"

 

He even makes little air quotes around the words. Pete is _enchanted_.

 

"In my defense," he says, "I really thought he was my buddy Joe."

 

"Right," says Patrick. "Sure. Of course you did. Just - please let me get the phone next time, okay?"

 

"Okay," Pete says agreeably. As much fun as it is to rile Patrick up, he doesn't actually want to give the dude a coronary. He cranks up the wattage of his smile and aims it squarely at Patrick, who sighs. He moves onto the next item on his List Of Things To Yell At Pete about (number seven: showing up for meetings, yes, Pete, even if you think they're boring), and Pete resists the urge to put his chin in his hands and just watch him. Pete adores him, _especially_ when he's angry.

 

 

 

 

"Ray, have you seen my tie?" Mikey yells from the bedroom, his words followed immediately by an ominously loud thump.

 

"I think you left it in the bathroom," Ray calls back, blowing hair out of his face and trying to fasten his cufflinks in front of the hall mirror. He hears footsteps from upstairs, then Mikey makes a triumphant noise.

 

"Found it, thanks," he hollers back, and Ray rolls his eyes fondly.

 

"Your other dad," he says to Danny, who's watching the chaos with interest from the bottom of the stairs, "Couldn't find his own ass with a map. That's what his mom used to say."

 

Danny giggles, then leaps up and out of the way as Mikey comes stumbling down the stairs at full speed, his tie trailing from his hand. He holds it out to Ray with a panicked, pleading look. Ray heaves a deep, exaggerated sigh, takes the strip of silky fabric and loops it around Mikey's neck, tucking it under the collar of his shirt.

 

"Don't know what I'd do without you," he says, as Ray finishes off the knot and settles it over the notch between Mikey's collarbones.

 

"Yeah, well, it's a good thing some of us weren't raised by wolves," Ray says, grinning as Mikey elbows his way in front of the mirror and starts fussing with his hair, and Ray is floored by a vivid flashback to the days of shitty basement shows, grimy clubs, dive bars, sprawling house parties.

 

"I'm telling my mom you said that," Mikey says distractedly, running his fingers through the bleached ends of his hair. "See if she lets you have my hand in marriage now."

 

"Two things," Ray says. "One, your mom loves me, I'm the poor sap who made an honest man of her son. Which brings me to thing two--" he leans in and presses a kiss to Mikey's cheek. "--Which is that she's a few years too late for that."

 

"Yeah, yeah," Mikey mutters, turning away from the mirror to face Ray. "Okay. What do you think?"

 

Ray looks him slowly up and down, taking in the full picture. Shiny shoes, charcoal suit, bright white shirt, skinny black tie, all set off by his tousled, bleached-out hair. Ray will cheerfully admit that he doesn't know the first damn thing about clothes (there's a reason why most of his own are wash-softened jeans and ratty band shirts), but he knows Mikey looks good. It must show on his face, because when he looks back up, there's a faint flush stealing over Mikey's cheeks and he's biting his lip. Ray grins. Every now and again, Mikey's position as record label boss forces them to go to a fancy party, and as much as Ray appreciates the sight of Mikey dressed to kill, it's nothing on the part of the evening where they fall out of the taxi half-drunk and laughing, make their way upstairs and leave the suits and ties on the bedroom floor.

 

"You'll do," says Ray, and turns back to Danny. "Okay. The sitter should be here any minute, then we're gonna go. You gonna be okay, little man?"

 

Danny nods solemnly, a skinny, serious kid in Star Wars pajamas. Considering he isn't related by blood to either of them, sometimes Ray is blindsided by just how like Mikey he is. He flings his arms around Ray's waist and squeezes, then disentangles himself and does the same to Mikey.

 

"I'll be fine," Danny says. "I like Vicky. We're gonna watch Ace of Cakes."

 

"Awesome," Mikey says, ruffling Danny's light brown hair. "You can tell me what I've missed tomorrow. Don't turn it up too loud, okay? Remember your sister's asleep upstairs."

 

Ray watches them both with pride. It might not have been exactly what he'd had in mind, but he loves the shit out of his little family. He always knew Mikey would make a great dad, but Mikey took some convincing on that point. Ray could happily have stood there in the hallway all evening thinking mushy, happy thoughts, but then Vicky rings the doorbell and Mikey is gently pushing him out into the driveway, and they're gone.

 

 

*

 

 

The annual Electric Century Christmas party isn't the sort of thing Ray would normally enjoy. He doesn't have a problem with the food and the free bar, it's the stupid suit and the pushy people that put him off. It suits Mikey down to the ground, though, and Ray is usually happy to watch him work the room. Every now and again, will Mikey swing by, grab Ray's arm and steer him around on a circuit of the people he actually knows and the people he doesn't know but that Mikey thinks he'd like.

 

But tonight, Mikey isn't circulating. Ray can see him across the room, deep in conversation with someone. Ray wonders whether Mikey needs rescuing. He's a fucking champion schmoozer, but he's not very good at extricating himself when he gets trapped by small talk. Ray can see that the other guy is hanging off of Mikey, his head thrown back like he's laughing. That's not unusual, there's always someone all up in Mikey's business, and it tends to be because they need something from him. After all, he's the boss. And besides, he's Mikey. Ray gets it. He finishes off his beer, then slides down off his barstool and begins to shoulder his way through the crowd.

 

"Hey," he says, sliding in next to Mikey, who's smiling at something Mystery Boy was saying.

 

"Hey yourself." Mikey gives Ray's hand a quick squeeze. "Where've you been? I wanted to introduce you to Bill."

 

You didn't come looking for me, though, Ray thinks, and immediately regrets it. When did he turn into such a jerk? This is Mikey's night, he has a lot of important people to make nice with. This guy is probably one of them.

 

"Bill's our new intern," says Mikey.

 

Or not.

 

And then Ray feels like a total asshole all over again. Mikey has this way of making people feel important, the full force of his undivided attention is like a spotlight. Mikey isn't the kind of guy to blow someone off because they're just an intern, and Ray wouldn't want him to be. Get a _grip_ , Ray tells himself. He hitches a smile onto his face and holds out his hand to Bill.

 

"Ray, Bill, Bill, Ray," Mikey says, by way of an introduction.

 

Bill shakes Ray's hand, and Ray looks him over grimly. He's lanky and skinny like Mikey, but taller, with a pretty, almost feminine face, soft and round where Mikey's is all hard lines and sharp angles. He's immaculately dressed in a dusky purple suit that flatters his fair skin, and Ray would put him at twenty-five, if that.

 

He beams at Ray, a megawatt, million dollar smile that makes Ray feel both guilty for disliking him on sight and awkward and graceless by comparison. Bill's arm is still looped around Mikey's waist. He says, "It's nice to put a name to a face, I've heard so much about you."

 

Ray grits his teeth and thinks, but doesn't say, _really? I haven't heard a damn thing about you._

 

 

*

 

 

Ray sits in the cab on the way home with his forehead pressed to the cold glass of the window, trying very hard not to puke. It's partly to do with how shitty he feels, hot and itchy with embarrassment, but mostly to do with the... eight drinks? Nine? It all starts to get a bit fuzzy after that. He's not twenty-one anymore, booze hits him harder than it used to. Mikey is quiet, sleepy, loose-limbed and wrung-out.

 

Ray takes a deep breath, and tries to rationalize.

 

Mikey runs a record label. Hanging out with bright, beautiful young things bursting with talent and promise is pretty much in his job description. It's never bothered Ray much, not when Mikey has to work around the clock because some new crisis has reared its head, not when pretty boys and girls hang off him at shows and parties because Mikey is the guy who has what they need and they don't think to connect the ring on his finger with the ring on Ray's. Ray knows they make an odd couple, but at least these days he's mostly stopped cringing at photos of the two of them together.

 

Mikey always used to come home and tell Ray about the dumb shit a baby band or occasionally an intern had pulled to get Mikey to notice them, and Ray and Mikey would laugh about it together, and then they'd put the kids to bed and lock themselves in their own room for silent but brain-melting sex. Ray's been so wrapped up in his teaching stuff and Danny getting into the AP program at school, maybe Mikey _has_ been quieter about work and Ray just hasn't noticed. Or maybe Ray is just imagining things, seeing the worst in what he knows is circumstantial at best. He loves Mikey, he loves their kids and he's never regretted his decision to give up his own career, but he's never felt so remote from Mikey's life. What if Mikey _is_ losing interest in him? Ray thinks of himself as a pretty straightforward dude - with him, what you see is what you get. That was what held him back from making a move on Mikey for years, thinking that he wasn't Mikey's type. Back in the day, Mikey went for mystery, for smoky-eyed boys and girls who were bored and beautiful and too cool for everything. People, in fact, like Bill.

 

"Hey." Mikey's soft voice jerks Ray out of his thoughts, and he manages a sheepish smile. "C'mon, we're home."

 

Ray clambers out of the backseat of the taxi, waiting on the sidewalk while Mikey pays the driver. It's cold, the kind of cold that makes everything sharp and bright, and the air is clearing Ray's head. He sways gently on the spot; Jesus, he's more drunk than he thought. Together, they walk up to the front door and Ray reaches into his pocket for his keys. He's about to open the door and let them both in, but Mikey's hand lands on his arm.

 

"You okay?" he says quietly, "You're... quiet."

 

Ray opens his mouth, then closes it again. He needs to sleep on this, he knows he's not thinking straight, and Mikey's big, earnest eyes are cutting right through him. "Yeah, I'm okay. Just had too much to drink. Hey," says Ray softly, as Mikey rests his head against Ray's shoulder. "We're okay, aren't we? I mean, you'd say something if we weren't, right?"

 

Mikey lifts his head, meeting Ray's eyes. He looks confused, maybe a little hurt. Ray lets out a long, slow breath.

 

"Yeah," Mikey says slowly. "Yeah, of course I'd... I think we're okay. Why?"

 

"Nothing," says Ray. "Just--being stupid. Forget it."

 

"Okay." Mikey bumps his shoulder affectionately against Ray's. "I know you hate these things," he says. "Thanks for coming with me."

 

"S'fine," Ray says, wearily. He wraps one arm around Mikey's shoulders and pulls him closer, feeling the warmth of Mikey's body pressed all down his side. "I'm probably too drunk to fuck, though."

 

Mikey huffs a laugh. "That's okay, I'll get over it. Come on, let's get you inside."

 

He kisses the corner of Ray's mouth, and it's almost enough to ease the tightness in Ray's throat.

 

 

 

 

"Spence? Spencer! I know you're in there," Brendon calls, hammering cheerfully at the door. The fact that Spencer blatantly doesn't like him and makes no effort to hide it has never bothered Brendon. No one can resist a full-on Brendon Urie charm offensive for long, it's only a matter of time before Spencer yields to the inevitable.

 

So far, though, he's holding out.

 

"Spencer," Brendon wheedles, banging on the door again. "Come on, man, I brought donuts. And I'm freezing my balls off out here."

 

Finally, the door swings open. Brendon suspects it was the promise of donuts that did the trick, but he'll take what he can get. Spencer looks wide awake and just as bitchy as usual, but the tousled hair, mismatched socks and crookedly-buttoned shirt give Brendon the impression that he got dressed in a hurry.

 

"You do know there's a doorbell, right," he says flatly, as Brendon breezes past him into the apartment. He sets down the green and white Krispy Kreme box on the kitchen table, then turns to beam at Spencer.

 

"Coffee?" Brendon says, extracting one of the paper cups from its little cardboard tray and offering it to Spencer. He hesitates, then grudgingly accepts the cup and a maple glaze donut. He takes a seat at the table and Brendon follows suit, taking the other coffee. He's trying to look mature and sophisticated, but he lasts about five seconds before grabbing the chocolate sprinkle monstrosity he's had his eye on and taking a bite so huge he struggles to chew it. Spencer rolls his eyes, and they sit in silence for a little while, Spencer sipping at his coffee, not eating his donut and looking everywhere but at Brendon. Brendon feels twitchy, the sensation returning gradually to his ears and his nose and his fingertips as the combined sugar and caffeine highs begin to hit him.

 

"So," Spencer says, and Brendon starts guiltily. "What do you want?"

 

Brendon manages a laugh that only sounds slightly fake. "I don't... what, I'm not allowed to make a social call?"

 

"No," says Spencer, shortly.

 

Fuck it, Brendon decides. Fuck it. His original strategy hasn't gotten him anywhere, and it's been nearly three years. "Okay," he says. "Cards on the table, Spencer Smith. I know you don't like me, that's... whatever." he holds up his hands to ward off any protestation from Spencer. "I'm working on that one. You _will_ like me. Everyone does."

 

"Must be your incredible modesty," Spencer deadpans. Brendon has never been good at reading people's expressions, but he's sure Spencer has a funny look on his face. Probably loathing. Or maybe it's just indigestion.

 

"Probably," Brendon agrees, seriously. "But look, I'm throwing myself on your mercy here, okay? I'm on my knees, Spencer." he clasps his hands together in mock prayer and makes his eyes big and hopeful. One smile, that's all Brendon wants out of him. But Spencer's face is a mask, completely locked down. Brendon takes a deep breath. "The wedding video," he says. "Ryan's hard drive got fried, we've lost everything."

 

"What about the video guy you hired?"

 

"We already called him. We'd paid and he'd sent it to us, so he'd deleted his backup," says Brendon unhappily. "Come on, I know you were filming it, I saw you. It doesn't matter if it's crappy, we just want something to remember it by."

 

"I wasn't," Spencer says, but his eyes flick tellingly to the living room doorway - and fuck yes, jackpot, Brendon can see the camera sitting on the coffee table. "I mean, I was, but I didn't--it was no good. I deleted it."

 

"Liar!" Brendon crows, triumphant, pointing accusingly at Spencer. "You _were_ , Spencer Smith, no way did you delete it."

 

"It's not... Brendon, don't," Spencer protests weakly, but Brendon is already out of his chair. He  beats Spencer to the living room, grabbing the camera off the table and powering it up. The thumbnail of the last thing on there is--god, thank god, it's the wedding video, Brendon and Ryan in matching tuxes, all their friends around them. Brendon ignores Spencer, sinks down onto the couch, and hits PLAY.

 

The first shot is of the two of them at the altar, Brendon standing there with a sappy, lovestruck grin on his face. He thumbs the fast forward button, watching the pictures flicker across the small screen. Brendon looks down at his own face, laughing, elated, stumbling over his vows, kissing Ryan, cutting the cake, dancing. It's all him, over and over again. And again. And again.

 

"This is... it's all me," Brendon says slowly, watching his own face, grinning, whispering in Ryan's ear on the dancefloor at the reception. He remembers that moment, he was bitching at Ryan for stepping on his feet. "Spencer, why is it all me?"

 

Spencer doesn't answer, just takes a seat on the far end of the couch, putting as much space as possible between himself and Brendon, and drops his head into his hands. The Brendon on the little screen is laughing, trying to carry Ryan out to the car that's waiting for them. Ryan is squirming, yelling at Brendon to wait, he hasn't thrown the bouquet, never mind that neither of them even had a bouquet, and somewhere off-screen Jon Walker almost elbows a waiter in the face in his enthusiasm to catch it, and then they're outside in the street and the car is driving away with them inside, Brendon looking back over his shoulder and waving through the window--

 

And then it's over, and Brendon looks up.

 

"All this time," he says, slowly, as everything shifts into focus. "All this time, I thought you didn't even like me. I thought maybe Ryan was the one you... I had it all wrong, this whole time, didn't I?"

 

He's still trying to put it all together in his head. He feels like the ground has shifted under his feet, he can't believe he never guessed. Spencer's arms are crossed over his chest, protecting himself. God, this is all such a mess. He knows Spencer and Ryan are weirdly close, he knows they've been friends since they were both just kids. Brendon has wondered, sometimes, but never dared to ask if anything ever happened between them. If either of them ever wanted it to. Brendon even remembers thinking Spencer was kind of cute, before he'd known he had a chance with Ryan. Brendon feels dizzy, watching all the what-ifs and might-have-beens unspooling around him. "How long?" he asks, and his own voice sounds weak and shaky.

 

"Brendon--"

 

"How long, Spencer?" he repeats. He thinks he deserves to know that much, at least.

 

Spencer shakes his head. "Since the beginning," he says quietly. He's gripping his coffee cup so tightly his knuckles are white. "You were--" he stops and takes a deep, shaky breath. "By the time I'd worked up the nerve to say something you and Ry were together. I could see you two were gonna be something, just the way you looked at each other. I didn't wanna get in the middle of that."

 

Without thinking, Brendon says, "Was it like that with Ryan too?"

 

Spencer gives him a sharp, sidelong look. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says flatly, and Brendon lets him have that one. Spencer looks around hopelessly, like he's trying to figure out where it all went so wrong. "This wasn't... you were never meant to find out." He rubs his eyes, still not looking at Brendon. "I actually have a, uh. I have work to do." He gets up like he's just going to walk out, and when Brendon grabs his wrist, Spencer jerks away like he's been burned.

 

"Spencer, Spence," says Brendon, and even in his own head, he sounds like he's begging for something. He doesn't know what. "Come on, please don't run away. I  never thought... Jesus, I thought you couldn't stand me."

 

"Yeah," says Spencer. "Well."

 

"Spencer, it doesn't have to be like this," Brendon says, a little desperately. He wants to fix things, he just wishes he knew how. "We can be friends. I want us to be friends." He tries a smile, but Spencer doesn't throw it back.

 

"I'm sorry," says Spencer, sitting back down. "I want to, but I don't... I don't think I can. You can let yourself out."

 

Brendon knows when he's being dismissed. He gets up and walks out, leaving Spencer slumped on the couch with his head in his hands and the donuts on the kitchen table.

 

 

 

 

"So, hey," Gabe says to Travie's crotch. He's not specifically speaking to his dick, that's just the part of him that's nearest to Gabe's face. "How'd you get into this?"

 

Gabe thinks Travie shrugs, but it's hard to be sure. He's on his back with Travie's thighs on either side of his head, Travie's junk over his face and Travie's head somewhere between his legs, so he doesn't have the best vantage point. Well. He does, but not for telling whether Travie is shrugging or not.

 

"Accident," says Travie, laughing a little. "I had a buddy who did this shit, called me one day to say he was in the ER and did I want the gig."

 

"Shit," says Gabe. "Was he okay?"

 

"Yeah," says Travie. He sounds like he's smiling at the memory. "He stole a shopping cart, I think he, like, fell out of it. They stitched him up, he was good. But he was in pretty deep with the whole scene, he got me some other jobs. You know, just until I could do it myself. What about you?"

 

"College," Gabe says, simply. "Tuition fees, man. It was this or stripping. Theatre major doesn't qualify you for a whole lot else if you wanna pay the bills."

 

In fact, he did strip for a while before he really got into body doubling through a friend of a friend. But the work was harder, the hours more antisocial and the money less reliable, so it wasn't a difficult choice, when it came down to it. He had a string of cubicle jobs too - sales, tech support, that kind of thing - which he'd hated, and consequently hadn't lasted long in any of them. He tends bar sometimes, when things are slow, but this suits him just fine.

 

"I feel that," says Travie, gloomily, and Gabe sighs.

 

They carry on like that for a while, and it isn't lost on Gabe that he's perfectly happy to lie here and pretend to sixty-nine the guy, but he can't bring himself to ask for his number.

 

 

 

 

"Ray, I can't take this anymore," says Patrick, the instant Ray picks up the phone. "I'm gonna quit, I swear. _God_."

 

"Hi, Patrick, it's nice to hear from you too," Ray says, rolling his eyes. He takes a seat at the kitchen table. This could take a while.

 

"Yeah, yeah," Patrick says distractedly. "Seriously, Ray, you're not gonna _believe_ \--"

 

"Don't tell me," says Ray. "He said you were cute. Again."

 

"No. Well. Yes, but that one kind of rolls off me now."

 

"He said you had a great ass. Again."

 

Patrick huffs. "Also not wrong. Ugh. Who the fuck _does_ that? Anyway, no, it's not even the, the... constant creepiness. He had three meetings today. Three. I reminded him about all of them. You know how many he showed up for?"

 

Ray decides that if he's going to listen to another Pete Wentz Is The World's Worst Boss diatribe from Patrick, he's sure as hell not going to do it sober. He gets up, reaches into the fridge for a beer and pops the tab. "I'm guessing it wasn't three."

 

"None," says Patrick, and then, with more feeling, as if he wants to make sure Ray has fully understood, " _None_."

 

Ray sucks air through his teeth in what he hopes is a sympathetic way and starts on the beer. He listens to Patrick complain for a few more minutes and tries to say helpful, supportive things when Patrick stops for breath. Ray feels bad for him, he really does, but he wishes his problems were so simple. He wishes the worst thing he had to worry about was a disorganized, over-friendly boss. He wishes he had an easy out like Patrick does, wishes he could extricate himself from his own problems by just walking away like Patrick could, if he wanted to.

 

"Patrick," Ray says, not unkindly, cutting him off mid-flow and interrupting his tangent about Pete's totally gross and stupidly complicated Starbucks order. "Patrick, dude, listen. You've got two options here. You can quit, or you can both just get it out of your systems and fuck on his desk or whatever."

 

Patrick, who says things like _shoot_ and _holy smokes_ and occasionally _damn_ when he's really, really pissed off and he thinks no one is listening, swears at Ray for a solid minute before he hangs up the phone.

 

 

 

 

The thing is, Gerard doesn't mean to do it. He doesn't. He's just taking a little walk to stretch his legs and clear his head - there's a kink in Number Five's narrative arc that he can't seem to work out - and the fact that Frank is outside scraping treacherous, slippery leaf mulch off the path has absolutely nothing to do with it. It's a gorgeous morning, cold enough that Gerard imagines he can feel the air crystallizing in his lungs and so perfectly quiet that he's glad he's not back home in New York. The light is beautiful, too, spilling over the golden sweep of the hills and turning the sky a clear, luminous shade of pink. Gerard never really liked painting landscapes, but his hands are itching for his watercolors. He glances surreptitiously in Frank's direction. Once again, Frank is wearing nothing but an unbuttoned jean jacket while Gerard is bundled up in three hoodies and a scarf. Gerard can see every puff of Frank's breath, rising in little white clouds. Gerard thinks, guiltily, that he should probably bring Frank a cup of coffee. Or maybe even invite him in for one, if he's feeling really brave.

 

He turns towards the little pond, back in the direction of the cottage. He's done enough walking for today (and, really, enough mooning over his unsuspecting handyman). He's going to go back inside, make some coffee and bring some out for Frank without saying or doing anything embarrassing, and then he's going to sit down  and get some writing done. He twists the signet ring on his little finger as he thinks. It was Elena's. He still misses her like hell, but it does him good to have something of hers that he can take with him wherever he goes. She would have known what to do about all of this, about Mike and how shitty and twisted up Gerard still feels about it, about Number Five's storyline and whether the time travel thing is too much. She could even have provided him with some witty, charming things to say to Frank in Italian.

 

He sighs, and looks down into the pond. The sunlight catches on the surface of the water, making it look like a bright silver coin. He wants to draw it, but the perfect light won't last all day. He should have brought his camera with him. He twists the ring again--and watches, appalled, as it slips between his numb fingers, flashing gold as it turns over and over in the air and splashes into the water.

 

Paralyzed with horror, Gerard lets out a piteous squeak. The sound carries in the still morning air, and Frank looks up. To Gerard's intense dismay, he comes running over. Fantastic, Gerard thinks. Really. Fuckin' A.

 

"Gerard? _Cosa è successo?_ "

 

"My ring," says Gerard miserably. He holds up his hand, pointing to his bare finger and then down at the water. Frank makes an exasperated face but he's kind of smiling, and Gerard wonders how the fuck he's supposed to act out the concept of 'fishing net'.

 

" _Bene_ ," Frank says, and before Gerard can even open his mouth to say _what?_ Frank has thrown himself into the water.

 

Gerard does not scream. He makes an extremely manly noise of surprise and alarm, because Frank Iero is fucking certifiable, what the fuck.

 

"Oh my god, what are you doing? Fuck, oh my god, please get out, your mom is going to skin me alive if you drown, Jesus!" Gerard babbles, but Frank ignores him, frowning as he digs around in the mud at the bottom of the pond. Cursing under his breath, Gerard grits his teeth and steps into the water. He whimpers miserably as it closes over his feet, his ankles - what the fuck, it's a lot deeper than it looks - and then his knees, his thighs, bitingly cold.

 

"Come on," he says, grabbing at Frank's arm and trying to pull him back onto dry land.

 

Frank wriggles free of Gerard's hand and of course, of fucking course, Gerard loses his balance and falls on his ass, soaking himself almost completely in the cold water. He gasps as the chill forces the air out of his lungs, scrabbling for purchase in the slick mud.

 

Frank rolls his eyes, still feeling around for the ring, then lets out a triumphant yell and throws his hands up, and Gerard can see a glint of gold between his fingers.

 

"Oh my god," says Gerard, relief washing over him as he finally manages to get to his feet. "Oh my god, you're a fucking lifesaver. I could kiss you right now."

 

Beaming, Frank takes a splashy step towards him - Gerard's heart starts slamming in his chest - and presses the ring into his hands.

 

" _Ecco qui_ ," he says, and Gerard grins sheepishly.

 

"Thank you," he says, although his teeth are chattering now, chopping up his words. "Uh, _grazie_. You didn't have to do that. Come on, we're going inside."

 

Astonished by his own daring, he seizes Frank by the arm and drags him out of the pond and back up towards the house. They drip their way up the path, both shivering. The shock of the cold has mellowed into a dizzy, loopy feeling like an adrenaline high, and Gerard feels dangerously like he could do anything.

 

 

*

 

 

Back at the cottage, Gerard hustles Frank into a hot shower and finds him a big, fluffy towel, a pair of pajama pants, some thick socks and a Wonder Woman t-shirt. He stands around uncomfortably and drips on the floor while he waits, then hops into the shower himself when Frank emerges pink-cheeked and smelling like Gerard's girly shower gel. Gerard carefully does not think about how this shower contained a wet, naked Frank just moments before. Once they're both warm and dry, Gerard makes a pot of coffee strong enough to kick down a door, because he figures they need it, and brings two mugs over to the kitchen table. Frank drinks his greedily while Gerard putters around the kitchen, throwing all of their wet, muddy clothes in the washer with a generous slug of detergent. It feels almost... domestic, like this isn't weird, just a thing that they do.

 

At least, until Gerard turns around and sees Frank leafing through the haphazard pile of character sketches he'd left on the kitchen table last night. "Um," he says. It's all over. Frank knows he's king nerd of nerdville and Gerard's entire life is over.

 

And then Frank looks up at him with a grin that makes Gerard weak in the knees and says, " _Dimmi del tuo_ _giornale a fumetti_."

 

Gerard's chest feels funny, and he thinks, distantly, _oh no_. He needs to get out of here, and soon, before things get out of hand.

 

 

 

 

Joe shows up on Pete's doorstep with a six pack under one arm and says, very seriously, "One more word about Patrick's ass and I'm out of here."

 

Pete lets him in. "Real nice," he says. "Supportive. Remind me why I keep you around, again?"

 

"Behind every great man is that great man's deadbeat buddy, dude," Joe says sagely, toeing off his ratty sneakers. "What do you want me to kick your ass at first, Halo or GTA?"

 

Pete grins. These days, he's so used to being surrounded by people who are trying to win his favor that old friends like Joe and Mikey who still think of him as a bratty little punk are a breath of fresh air. "Keep dreaming, Trohman," he says, as he leads Joe down the hallway to the living room.

 

He flops down on the couch and helps himself to a beer while Joe crouches down by the Xbox and loads up Halo. Joe tosses him a controller and he catches it with his free hand, then immediately puts it down when his phone buzzes against his hip. If Joe thought Pete was surgically attached to his phone when he was just a kid trying to get his band a foothold in the scene, it's nothing to what he's like now. Now he's finally getting somewhere in politics, he needs to be plugged into the latest news at all times in case a reporter tries to catch him on the hop.

 

It turns out to be a text from Mikey, not a news update. Pete thumbs it open. It reads, _if R calls, im with u_.

 

Pete smiles, remembering. It's been many years since he last had a message like that from Mikey Way. He's pretty sure the last time was before Mikey started hooking up with Ray, when they were all throwing themselves heart and soul into misspending their youths. Mikey is probably Christmas shopping for Ray, Pete can't think why else he'd need the alibi.

 

"Dude," says Joe. "Put the cell phone down, I want you to witness how hard you suck at this game."

 

Pete gives him a dead leg, just for old time's sake.

 

 

 

 

Gabe is just congratulating himself on buying his sister a gift even she won't want to exchange and wondering whether he should get Travie something when he spots a familiar figure walking into the record store across the street.

 

"Hey, Mikey!" he yells. "Mikey fucking Way!"

 

Mikey whirls around, looking understandably startled. Gabe glances both ways and then jogs across the street, grinning.

 

"Mikey, you fucker!" he says happily, throwing one long arm around Mikey and reeling him in for a hug. "How the hell are you?"

 

"Gabe, hi," Mikey says, his face smushed into Gabe's shoulder. "Didn't know you were back in town." Gabe lets go and holds him at arm's length for a moment, studying him critically.

 

"You changed your hair," he says. "Looks good, Mikeyway. And what happened to your glasses, did you--"

 

And that's when he realizes who's standing next to Mikey on the sidewalk, hands in the pockets of his criminally tight jeans like butter wouldn't melt.

 

"William," Gabe says, recovering himself. "Didn't see you there."

 

William smiles, sly and so fucking pretty, just like he always was. Gabe's eyes drop to William and Mikey's hands, a scant few inches apart in the cold, clear air. Gabe looks back up, and suddenly several things slot neatly into place. Mikey doesn't look surprised, he looks... twitchy. Nervous, even, fidgeting on the spot and subtly pulling his hand away from William's.

 

"I didn't know you two knew each other," Mikey says, when the silence gets uncomfortable. "Bill's interning at Century."

 

"Is that so," says Gabe. He looks hard at Bill. He knows that look, he knows that fucking smirk, like a cat with canary feathers in its teeth. Oh, Mikey Way, thinks Gabe, what the hell have you got yourself into?

 

"Started a few weeks ago," says Bill casually. "Mikey's been great, though."

 

"I'm sure he has," says Gabe, fixing his eyes on Mikey, who makes a big show of rummaging through his pockets for a cigarette and lighting it up. "So, Mikey. How are the sprogs, still got you wrapped around their tiny fingers? And where's that tall drink of water of yours?"

 

"They're good, yeah," Mikey says in an aggressively neutral tone of voice, and takes a drag on his smoke. "Ray's still teaching guitar. Danny's in the AP program now, Ellie's learning to play the drums."

 

"Cool, cool," Gabe says. He's trying not to jump to conclusions here, but Jesus Christ. He knows William of old and he's hardly surprised, but Mikey? Gabe can't help it, he's a little bit disappointed. "Well, I've gotta be on set in twenty, so I'll let you kids get back to it. Call me, Mikeyway, we should hang." He walks backwards away from them, making finger guns in their general direction.

 

He's probably wrong, he decides. It's not really any of his business, anyway.

 

Maybe he should get Travie a Christmas present.

 

 

 

 

It's been a week since the party, and Ray and Mikey are both pretending that everything is fine. At least, Ray feels like he's pretending. For all he knows, Mikey hasn't noticed a thing and it's all in his head. Mikey seems just the same as usual, if a little quieter about work. He used to come home and tell Ray all the dumb office gossip, how some days it's like The Great Prank War Armistice of 2005 never happened, how someone keeps stealing Spencer Smith's sandwiches out of the break room fridge, how Mikey personally dropped a baby band because their creepy drummer kept trying to put his hand up Greta's skirt.

 

Now, though, getting Mikey to talk about Century is like trying to get toddler puke out of cream carpet.

 

What Ray really wants is to talk to someone. Someone who'll listen, and then tell him that it's obviously nothing and that he needs to stop being so paranoid. Unfortunately, his options are limited. He's known Mikey for so long that all his friends are Mikey's friends too (and in some cases also Mikey's employees), which complicates things.

 

Gerard is Ray's first thought, but he's Mikey's brother and Ray isn't enough of an asshole to make Gerard take sides, if it comes to that. Besides, it seems sort of insensitive. What would he even say? _Hey, Gee, remember that time you came home and caught your boyfriend banging someone else in your bed? What would you say were the top ten warning signs?_

 

There's Bob, Ray supposes, but Bob--god love him, he's good people, but he's not good at feelings. He has two solutions to any problem, and these can be summarized as follows: suck it up, or fuck it up. In other words, either ignore the problem or punch somebody until it goes away.

 

And that pretty much leaves Patrick, who is not only running himself into the ground in this new job but, Ray suspects, has more than enough romantic trouble of his own.

 

*

 

Ray isn't snooping. That's the important thing here. He isn't even looking, really. He's actually cleaning, because by some miracle, he finds himself with a couple of hours on his hands during which the kids are at school, Mikey is at work and Ray isn't booked to teach guitar. It's not like he's turning the house upside down looking for incriminating evidence that Mikey is up to something.

 

He just has his eyes open, that's all.

 

He finds it in the back of their closet when he's looking for the other half of that pair of mittens Ellie hates so much. He's pretty sure no one has seen it since last winter, which makes him wonder if it snuck in here in one of his or Mikey's coat pockets. He checks all the pockets but there's no sign of it, so he gets down on his knees and winces when his back protests. He's getting too old for this shit. He runs his hand over the bottom of the closet, rummaging through an assortment of stray shoes and scarves, and stops when his fingertips graze something flat and smooth.

 

He pulls it out and sits back on his heels, and feels his mouth fall open.

 

It's an old seven inch wrapped in a clear plastic bag, the Space Oddity/Wild Eyed Boy From Freecloud single. Ray knows his music, and he knows this is the unreleased version of the cover sleeve. There are only one or two others like this in existence.

 

Ray knows his music, and he knows this thing is worth about five grand.

 

He sets it down carefully on the floor in front of him, like it's a live grenade, and that's when he spots the note stuck to the front of the plastic bag. _Merry Christmas, with all my love_. The handwriting is Mikey's, spiky and barely legible.

 

If Ray hadn't already been sitting on the floor, his legs probably would have given out. He feels almost giddy with relief. Jesus, he's been such an asshole, jumping to conclusions over nothing at all. How could he have doubted Mikey? No wonder Mikey's been so quiet recently. He always gets all squirrelly when he's trying to keep a secret, because he's a terrible liar and he knows it. Ray laughs to himself and runs his hand through his hair. He feels dangerously close to calling Mikey at work just to tell him he loves him, but he thinks that would probably tip Mikey off.

 

As soon as he's (reluctantly) dismissed that thought, the phone rings downstairs. He carefully puts the seven inch back where he found it and hurries down to the kitchen to take the call.

 

"Hello?" he says. He's still grinning.

 

"Hey, it's Gerard."

 

"Gee! How're you doing?"

 

"Good," says Gerard, and he sounds like he means it. Ray hears the click of a lighter and cringes, remembering the time Gerard accidentally melted his cell phone by smoking while he was trying to call Mikey. "Better, anyway. I'm coming home for Christmas. I mean, if you guys are still happy to have me."

 

"You're still invited, but I should warn you that Mikey's cooking."

 

Gerard makes a strangled noise, like he just choked on his cigarette. "Oh. I, uh..."

 

"Relax," Ray says, leaning back in his chair and grinning. "I'm just fucking with you. No way am I letting your brother cook Christmas dinner, he can't even make ramen."

 

Gerard heaves a sigh of relief. "Oh my god, you asshole. Jesus. You had me going there. It'd probably be good for me, though, I've put on, like, fifty pounds since I've been here. Frank's mom keeps sending him over with frozen lasagna, it's a fucking nightmare."

 

"Jesus," says Ray. "You're actually remembering to eat?"

 

"It's _survival_ ," Gerard says earnestly. "He keeps on bringing me more food! The freezer is full, Ray! If I don't eat it, who will?"

 

"Yeah, Gee, you're a real hero. How's Frank? You manage to drown him yet?"

 

"Fuck you, that is not what happened," Gerard says haughtily, and Ray hears him take a deep drag on his smoke. "God, I don't know, he's all... distracting."

 

"Uh huh."

 

"Ugh, stop it, we're not even talking about this. We don't even speak the same language. Anyway, he's, like. I don't even know. Stupidly pretty. It's not happening."

 

"If you say so. Gee, I've gotta run, I have to pick the kids up, but let us know when you've booked your flight, okay?"

 

"Okay," Gerard says, and takes another drag on his cigarette. "Say hi to the babies for me. See you soon, Ray."

 

 

 

 

Pete doesn't mean to come back to his office instead of his house after the party, but he's very drunk and he supposes he must have given the driver the wrong address. Well, whatever. In his defense, it was a really, really terrible drinks party. There's a couch in his office, so he figures he can just crash here and go home for a shower and a clean shirt once he's sobered up. He lets himself in and stumbles towards the water cooler, congratulating himself for being so responsible.

 

"Pete?"

 

Pete spins around and sees Patrick sitting at his desk, looking disheveled and sleepy, a coffee cup in his hand. Pete beams at him.

 

"Patrick," he says happily. "What the hell are you doing here?"

 

"Had some paperwork to finish. What are you doing here?"

 

"Very important things," Pete says loftily, and nearly falls over.

 

"Whoa, whoa, careful," says Patrick, jumping up. "Come on, sit down. I'll get you something to drink. Easy does it." He grabs Pete's arm and guides him over to the couch in the corner. Pete slumps gratefully into it.

 

"Don't want anything to drink. Come 'n join me, Trick," Pete slurs, grabbing at Patrick. Patrick falls heavily onto the cushion next to Pete, making a little _oof_ noise as the breath is knocked out of him.

 

" _Trick?_ " repeats Patrick, making a totally hilarious disapproving face. Pete wants to kiss it. Good boss, good boss, he reminds himself.

 

"Yeah," Pete says. "What, you don't like it? You can have a different nickname if you want. Anything."

 

"You're drunk," Patrick says.

 

"Yup," Pete agrees. He leans sideways, his head drooping onto Patrick's shoulder. Patrick tenses, but doesn't pull away, which Pete is counting as a win.

 

"Sir," he says, half-heartedly.

 

"I told you not to call me that," Pete grumbles, shoving weakly at Patrick and ending up half on top of him. Patrick is the best for hanging all over. Pete knows he'll regret this tomorrow, but Patrick feels so good pressed against him that he can't bring himself to move.

 

Patrick heaves a put-upon sigh. "Okay, Mr. Wentz."

 

Pete frowns. "Why do you always do that?"

 

"Do what?"

 

"You know what."

 

"Alright," says Patrick, with a distinct snap in his voice. "Because you're my boss, okay? Because no matter what I--because I work for you. That's why."

 

There's a long silence, what-ifs piling up between them like snow. They're so close, Pete can feel Patrick's warmth through his thin shirt and if Patrick just turned his head Pete could...

 

Patrick suddenly gets to his feet, pitching Pete halfway off the couch.

 

"You need to go home," he says, not meeting Pete's eyes. "I'll call you a cab. Sir."

 

 

*

 

 

Pete wakes up the next morning with a jackhammer going off inside his skull and a seasick stomach, but he forces himself up and out of bed. He needs to see Patrick and apologize. God, what was he thinking? This has set him back, like, ten whole steps in his plan to convince Patrick of his undying love. He stops at the bakery and picks up coffee and croissants, hoping to bribe his way back into Patrick's good graces.

 

But when he gets to his office, it's empty, and Patrick's resignation letter is sitting on his desk.

 

 

 

 

"Travie's gone?" Gabe repeats, and Vicky the assistant director nods apologetically.

 

"Yeah, he left about half an hour ago," she says, half-shouting over the music.

 

"But I had to talk to him," Gabe says helplessly. "It was important."

 

"Can't you just call him? I thought you guys were like this." She holds up her hand, crossing her fingers. Her rings flash under the club lights.

 

"I was working on it," Gabe says. "Thanks, Vicky." He turns away, furious with himself. This is where playing it cool gets you, he tells himself. Shit.

 

Truth be told, Gabe was already in a warm, happy place somewhere south of sober when he arrived at the wrap party. He had big plans for tonight, and he felt that combining Joe's going-away party and his own pre-drinking was a good first step. But now Travie is gone, and Gabe is just drunk and miserable.

 

The way Gabe sees it, there's only one thing to be done, so he gets down to the serious business of getting stinking drunk. He ends up shitfaced and dirty dancing with Maja the scary blonde director - and of course that's when Travie walks back in.

 

Gabe is so surprised he nearly falls off his table. Although, to be fair, the booze probably isn't helping.

 

"Travie!" he yells, stumbling down and lurching into Travie's arms. "You came back for me," he says, with a sloppy smile. The low lights are doing incredible things for Travie's gorgeous, dusky skin, painting him in pools of liquid shadow and planes of glowing color.

 

"I did," Travie says, and it takes Gabe several long, slow seconds to realize that he's laughing. Gabe doesn't care. He's warm and solid and he smells good, like cold, fresh air.

 

"You're beautiful," Gabe tells him, very seriously, and smoothly leans in to kiss him. Only the floor is spinning and the walls look sort of wavy, and Gabe overbalances and almost brains himself on the edge of the bar.

 

"Whoa, whoa," says Travie, still sounding totally mellow. "Let's get you outside, huh? Get you some fresh air."

 

Gabe agreeably lets himself be manhandled outside and then over to a bench on the sidewalk. He sits down  heavily, the biting cold like a blessing after the heat of the club. He picks at his  sweaty t-shirt where it's sticking to his chest, then abruptly remembers Travie. He has this smile on his face, slow and sweet like molasses, and it's doing it for Gabe like nobody's business.

 

"Looks like you're  having a pretty good night," Travie says blandly.

 

Gabe is distantly aware that the cold and the relative quiet of the street are sobering him up, and fast. If he wants the benefit of liquid courage and plausible deniability, he needs to say something quickly, before he loses his nerve. He swallows.

 

"It's been good," he says, which is a filthy lie, but the words are in the right order and they're not _how would you feel about eloping with me tonight?_ so Gabe is counting it as a win. "Missing something, though."

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Yeah." Gabe looks at Travie, aiming for a sweet, sincere smile. He suspects it looks more like his usual shit-eating grin, but hey, you can't win 'em all. "There's this guy," he says slowly, partly because he's thinking this out as he goes and partly because he's pretty sure he's slurring his words as it is. "And he's awesome, right, really fuckin' cool, hot as hell, all that. And I was a dumbass, and I never asked for his number."

 

"Sounds like a cool guy," says Travie innocently. One corner of his mouth pulls up, daring Gabe to call him on it. "Keep going."

 

And Gabe loves that, loves that Travie is just enough of an asshole. He almost opens his mouth to say as much, but then he gets himself back under control.

 

"Anyway, I obviously saw him naked, like, right off the bat," Gabe carries on, "And that's not, like. I mean, it's not like I don't wanna sleep with him because Jesus, I totally do. But I want... I think I wanna _date_ him, you know? I want the, the - dinner and flowers, right? I want all the chick flick shit."

 

Travie gives him a long look, gently amused, one eyebrow slightly raised. Gabe wants to kiss him.

 

"Chick flick shit," Travie says, eventually. "Like getting pancakes at 3am?"

 

"Yes," says Gabe emphatically. "Oh man, fucking pancakes. And coffee, I really want a fucking coffee right now." And then he remembers, and his heart flutters. "Uh. That was you saying yes, right?"

 

Travie laughs, and bumps his shoulder against Gabe's. "Yeah. Come on, baby, let's go find some fuckin' pancakes."

 

 

 

 

" _Stai partendo?_ " says a voice right in Gerard's ear, and he jumps and drops a suitcase on his foot.

 

"Frank," he says, his eyes watering with pain as he gingerly lifts the suitcase again and heaves it into the trunk. "Hi. I was, uh. I wasn't sure if you'd be here today. I'm... going home. Obviously." He gestures at his car, the open trunk crammed with his own stuff as well as a bulging bag of gifts for everyone back home.

 

" _Mi mancherai_ ," Frank says, with a little smile. It probably means _don't go jumping into any ponds without me_ , or something. Just thinking it makes Gerard feel like the worst kind of coward, but he was sort of hoping Frank wouldn't catch him before he left.

 

"I'm gonna miss you," Gerard says, because what the hell, it's not like Frank can understand him. Sure enough, Frank's expression doesn't flicker. "Oh!" Gerard snaps his fingers, suddenly remembering. "I have something for you. Stay here for a minute, okay?" He holds up both of his hands in what he hopes is universally accepted sign language for stay, and books it back into the house. He grabs the sheet of paper off the kitchen table, and heads out to where Frank is still standing by the car.

 

"Here," he says, handing it to Frank. Frank takes it, puzzled, and for a minute Gerard thinks he's misjudged this whole situation, but then he sees Frank's face light up. On the paper is one of the many drawings of Frank Gerard has done since he's been here. On the paper, Frank is laughing, dripping wet, up to his knees in pond water. Gerard is secretly very pleased with it. It's just right. It's not too intimate, unlike Gerard's sketches of Frank smoking on the veranda or drinking coffee in Gerard's Wonder Woman t-shirt, and it's neither too slapdash nor too obsessively detailed. He'd agonized for hours over what to write on it ( _love_ was out of the question and _Dear Frank_ was a big maybe, but was a quick _xxx_ too much?) and eventually settled on, _Frank - thanks so much for everything. Don't know what I'd do without you! Gerard xo_. He thought that sounded about right. The exclamation point makes it flippant, lighthearted.

 

Frank looks up at Gerard, his grin tugging at something in Gerard's chest. " _Grazie_ ," he says. " _Grazie, dio mio. È perfetto._ "

 

"Well," says Gerard, looking down at his shoes and trying not to smile. "It's not much. Just, uh, least I could do. I'm glad you like it." From Frank's feverish, excited eyes and his babbling, Gerard is reasonably sure it's gone down well.

 

He holds out his hand for Frank to shake, but Frank rolls his eyes and goes straight in for a hug instead. In fact, Frank sort of throws himself at Gerard, knocking the breath out of him, and Gerard is momentarily paralyzed by the feel of Frank's warm, solid body pressed against his own.

 

"Happy holidays, I guess," says Gerard. He feels doubly breathless; if Frank knocking the wind out of him hadn't been enough, Frank being all over him certainly is. "I just wanted to say thanks for, uh. You know." He makes a vague gesture that encompasses all of Frank as well as the house. It's probably a good thing Frank can't understand him. He's only been here a few weeks, but he feels like a different person. He's finally cracked the ending of The Umbrella Academy and it's good, he knows it is, and he's barely thought about Mike at all in the last few days. Reluctantly, he steps away from Frank, squashing the urge to cling to him and never let go.

 

"So, uh, I'd better go," he says uncomfortably. He slams the trunk closed and walks around to the driver's side. "Bye, Frank."

 

" _Arrivederci_ ," Frank says, with a little wave. He looks almost disappointed, Gerard thinks, then catches himself. It's a trick of the light, he tells himself sternly.

 

Gerard drives all the way to the airport with the uncomfortable feeling that there's something he's left behind.

 

 

 

Opening one present each on Christmas eve is an old tradition, one that was born when the kids were much younger. It was essentially a bribe to get them to bed at a reasonable time, but somehow they've never managed to kick the habit. So far, Ellie has unwrapped a new pair of drumsticks from uncle Patrick, Danny is refusing to take off the knitted sweater with charming Death Star motif from Donna, and Mikey's eyes keep on flicking towards the copy of Keith Richards' autobiography that Pete bought him.

 

Which just leaves Ray. He hovers his hand over the remaining gifts, making metal detector noises that have Ellie in stitches. In fact, Ray is sizing them up. It's not like he's been watching or anything, but there's a flat, square parcel that only appeared under the tree after Mikey got home at lunchtime, almost as if it was something too precious and fragile to be left lying around underfoot in a house that contains two excited kids. It's the only thing that's the right size and shape, it must be the one.

 

"This one," he says, picking it up. He sees one corner of Mikey's mouth twitch. Carefully, he tears through the paper. For such a klutz, Mikey is weirdly neat when it comes to gift wrapping.

 

Then the last of the paper falls away, and Ray's heart sinks.

 

It's a photograph, backed onto a thin, square piece of glass. It's of him and Mikey, Mikey sitting in his lap, holding a bass guitar. One of Ray's arms around Mikey, the other is reaching forward to hold the neck of the bass. They're twenty-two and twenty-six with terrible hair and painfully bright grins and Ray is barely breathing.

 

"Do you like it?" says Ellie anxiously.

 

"The kids helped me pick the photo," Mikey says, reaching over to stroke Ellie's hair.

 

"I'm not a _kid_ ," Ellie protests, affronted. "I'm nearly _eight_ , dad."

 

"It's great," says Ray, his voice tight. "It's perfect. Thanks, guys."

 

Ellie beams.

 

"I'm gonna go make hot chocolate," says Ray's mouth, which seems to be running some kind of damage control without any input from his brain. Mikey bought a five thousand dollar record, wrote a love note to go with it, and gave it to someone else. He didn't want to believe it, but he's all out of other options. "Mikes? Kids?"

 

Mikey holds up his half-full glass of wine and Ellie shakes her head, but Danny nods and gives Ray a sleepy smile that cracks his heart right down the middle. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Ray gets to his feet and picks his way through the wrapping paper debris littering the floor and makes for the safety of the kitchen. He doesn't bother with the light, just sinks into a chair and drops his head into his hands.

 

It's not about the money. It's not. Ray couldn't care less how much Mikey spends on him. They live comfortably, their parents are provided for, their kids go to a good school, they can afford to go on vacation every summer. That's more than fine, certainly more than Ray ever expected. It's not the fucking money. It's the way this confirms all of Ray's worst fears, all the things Ray thought he'd put to rest. More than anything else, it's the note _\- all my love_ , it said. There were two whole years between the time when they started hooking up regularly and the first time Mikey used that word. Has this been going on longer than Ray thought? Or does Mikey think he's finally met The One, fourteen years too late?

 

It feels like the walls and roof have been removed from Ray's cozy little world, turning a home into a movie set. You had a good run, says the little voice in his head that he's worked so hard to silence over the years. It was only a matter of time. He wants to be angry, knows he should be, but he doesn't have the heart for it. Some tiny, awful part of him has been waiting for this, he realizes. Not because he didn't trust Mikey, just because he's always felt like he's been on borrowed time. He's not stupid, he knows Mikey is out of his league. He always thought they were happy, perhaps Mikey didn't feel the same way. And, oh, Mikey. It doesn't seem fair that Ray should love him more than ever now he's breaking Ray's heart.

 

If this is it, if this is the end of them... god. He doesn't know what he'll do, how he'll cope. He'll have to sit down with Mikey and talk it over, work out a plan. Get a lawyer. Tell their friends, tell their families. Tell--fuck, tell the kids. Ray feels physically sick. Not now. Not at Christmas. He has to hold it together for just a couple more days, that's all. He can do that, for them. Maybe after that Danny and Ellie could stay with Donna or Ray's parents for a few days while he and Mikey hash things out. He hopes it won't be too messy. It's not like he wants to be the one to pull the plug on fourteen years together, but if Mikey doesn't want to stay, Ray won't make him.

 

Ray takes a deep, shuddering breath, willing himself to pull it together. It's such a small thing, to go back in there and pretend he's as happy as he was just a month ago, but it feels huge. It feels like the end of the world.

 

Then the phone rings, sharp and loud and startling. Ray exhales slowly and picks up the receiver, his hands still shaking.

 

"Hello?" he says, fighting to hold his voice steady.

 

"Mikey?" Gerard's voice is indistinct, almost drowned by the rush and clatter of airport background noise, but he sounds breathless.

 

"Hey, Gee. It's Ray."

 

"Shit, sorry, it's so fucking loud in here I can't hear a thing. I'm--okay. I'm at the airport."

 

"Cool. Are you gonna get a cab over here?"

 

"Uh," Gerard says. He sounds almost like he's on the edge of laughing, the words strangely flattened as if he's trying to keep a straight face. "No."

 

"No? You need a lift? I could come and get you in the car, but it's gonna take me a while to get out to Newark at this time of night." Ray looks outside. Snow has begun to fall, dusting the city lights with white.

 

"I'm not... I'm sorry, Ray, I'm not coming," Gerard says. He sounds distracted, like his mind is elsewhere. It's familiar to Ray, who still remembers Gerard as a spacey, artsy kid who was almost never  really where he seemed to be. "I'm going back. For--for him. I realized while we were in the air that I was doing the wrong fucking thing, you know? I was kicking myself, I've been such a fucking dumbass. I'm so sorry, I didn't wanna miss spending Christmas with you guys and the kids, but I feel like it's, like, fucking now or never, you know?" He laughs for real then, high and loud and exhilarated.

 

Ray sinks into a chair, grinning. "No shit. That's fantastic, Gee. Really. Don't worry about us, we'll get by without you."

 

"Yeah? I'll be home next year, I promise."

 

"Bring Frank or you're not invited," Ray says, and Gerard laughs again. Ray can almost see him pushing his hand through his hair.

 

"Okay," he says. "Okay. I'll do my best. Fuck! I can't believe--god. I think I'm gonna puke. Wish me luck, okay?"

 

"We'll all cross our fingers," Ray promises. "Now go already, Jesus! I'll go tell Mikey."

 

"I'm going, I'm going," Gerard says, and Ray laughs.

 

"Okay. Go get him. And - Gee?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"This is... I'm really happy for you," Ray says softly, and he means it.

 

"Thanks, Ray," Gerard says, quiet and serious, and then, "Hi! My boarding pass? It's, uh. It's in one of these fucking pockets, sorry, hold on..."

 

 

 

 

Joe steps out of Charles de Gaulle airport, hails a taxi and, with the aid of a phrasebook he bought back in Newark, asks the driver to take him to the nearest bar. The driver sighs and mutters something that could be _"Américain"_ under his breath, but he revs the engine and pulls away from the airport. When they roll up outside what could definitely be a bar, Joe pays with a handful of crisp euros and hefts his backpack over his shoulder. He inhales deeply, just looking around. Big things are going to happen for him here, he can feel it. It's started to snow, powdering the Paris skyline. He takes a quick photo and sends it to Pete ( _merry xmas motherfucker. wish u were here. also u owe me $50._ ) before heaving open the door.

 

It's dimly lit, paneled in dark wood, with cracked leather seats and gleaming beer taps. Joe decides that this is his new favorite place in all the world. He takes a seat at the bar.

 

The barman is gorgeous, redheaded and covered in tattoos. Joe grins. Things are looking up already.

 

Gorgeous Bartender gives Joe a friendly nod. " _Salut. Qu'est-ce que vous voulez?_ "

 

"Um," says Joe. "Shit. Hold on." He rummages around for his phrasebook, thumbing through it. There was a section on food  and drink, he's sure, and he thought he'd memorized the salient points (namely how to order a beer), but his brain seems to have crashed.

 

"American, huh?" says Gorgeous Bartender, switching to perfect English, and Joe breathes a sigh of relief.

 

"Oh, thank god," he says. "Yeah, Chicago. I just got here."

 

"No shit. Milwaukee."

 

"Dude," Joe says, reaching across the bar to fistbump him. "I'm Joe."

 

"Andy," says Gorgeous Bartender, and he smiles, and Joe falls in love instantly.

 

 

 

 

"Gerard?"

 

Frank looks surprised, and Gerard can't blame him. He knows he must look like hell right now, he's only spent four of the last forty-eight hours asleep. He catches sight of himself in the mirror behind Frank and cringes. His hair is a rat's maze where he's been running his hands through it, his eyes look just as bleary and sore as they feel and he's wired and twitchy from the four cups of shitty coffee he downed to keep himself awake.

 

Frank, by contrast, is the best thing Gerard has ever seen. He's wearing sweatpants and a clinging white t-shirt, pink-cheeked and freshly-showered and, now he's gotten over the initial shock, smiling like all his Christmases have come at once. And if Gerard wasn't sure before, he is now. This is it. He's got butterflies in his stomach, racing heart, dry mouth, swelling music playing in his head, the full works.

 

"Hi," Gerard breathes. He's smiling so hard his face hurts. "Um. I think I made a mistake. Leaving, I mean. I felt to stupid when I figured it out, god. I was sitting there on the plane and... oh my god, it's the middle of the fucking night, I probably woke you up, right? I would've been here sooner but I got lost, like, eight times, Jesus. I'm sorry, you're just so--mmmf!"

 

Frank grabs the front of his jacket, shoves him up against the wall and kisses Gerard until his knees feel like they're about to give out.

 

" _Non avete mai zitto_ ," Frank growls, and Gerard shivers. He doesn't know what Frank said - probably something insulting - but Gerard is going to need him to do it again, stat.

 

"Okay," Gerard mumbles, his words lost in Frank's mouth. He's cold and he's tired and he's so, so happy.

 

" _Entrare, idiota_ ," Frank says, grinning, and he pulls Gerard inside and shuts the door behind them.

 

 

 

 

Pete doesn't really stop to think until he's climbing into a cab at O'Hare, which is probably for the best. He managed to get through the airport unnoticed, largely thanks to the enormous pair of sunglasses he bought at Newark (even if they do make him look like a total douchebag when he wears them inside), and that's something to be thankful for. He doesn't give the driver the exact address, mainly because he doesn't have it. But Chicago is Pete's hometown too, and from things Patrick has mentioned in passing about his childhood and his parents, Pete is pretty sure he's narrowed it down to a few streets in a quiet corner of Evanston. If he has to go door to door trying to find Patrick's parents' place, so be it. It'll be an awesome story for the best man to tell at their wedding one day.

 

Pete knows for a fact that Patrick was planning to fly out and spend Christmas with his family. Pete intends to track him down, but there are two big ifs in play - firstly, if Patrick hasn't changed his plans (odds: not likely) and secondly, if his parents still live in the house where Patrick grew up (odds: middling). Pete feels good about his chances. He's always been a gambler at heart.

 

In the end, it doesn't take Pete nearly as long as it should. He doesn't find Patrick straight away, but he does find a scary-looking blonde dude who vaguely recognizes Pete as a friend of Joe's and also happens to know Patrick. Fucking Chicago. Pete misses it sometimes.

 

"You wanna take a left here, then another left," the guy - Bob - says. His tone implies an _or else_ , but Pete doesn't think he means it. Bob just has that kind of voice. "Number one one thirty."

 

"Okay," Pete says. "Left, left, one one thirty. Awesome. You're awesome, Bob Bryar."

 

"So they tell me," mutters Bob, disappearing back inside and shutting the door on Pete.

 

Pete sets off again, sinking his hands into his pockets. He glances up at the sky, thick with grey-purple clouds. It's going to snow later, but right now it's just cold as shit.

 

He finds number one one thirty without too much trouble, and rings the bell. While he waits for someone to answer the door, he shifts from foot to foot and blows on his hands. Come on, come on, he thinks. Don't let this dumbass stunt have been for nothing. Just when he's about to give up and call a cab to take him back to the airport, the door swings open and there's Patrick in jeans and an ugly sweater, calling over his shoulder, "Leave it, Ma, it's probably just carol singers--oh."

 

"Hi," says Pete, beaming at Patrick. "You're fired."

 

"You can't fire me," Patrick says. "I quit, remember? And how did you even find me?"

 

"Oh, with a little help from my friends. Well. Your friends, I guess." Pete shrugs nonchalantly, suppressing the urge to jump up and down and whoop with triumph.

 

"Bob," Patrick growls - actually growls, Pete is _thrilled_. "I'm going to kill him."

 

"Dude, no, he's like a Viking," says Pete, reasonably.

 

Patrick scowls. It's adorable. "What the hell are you doing here anyway, Pete?"

 

"Pete! You called me Pete!" crows Pete, delighted.

 

"Yeah, well. You're not my boss anymore," Patrick says, and folds his arms across his chest. "Seriously. What do you want?"

 

"I came here to fire you," Pete says, seriously.

 

"After I'd quit."

 

"Well, I wanted to make it official. You made it pretty clear you weren't interested in an office romance."

 

Patrick goes a beautiful shade of pink, and Pete thinks, fuck it. What does he have to lose? He might as well just lay it out. He figures that the truth will set you free, except when it'll get you slapped.

 

"Patrick Stump," he says, resisting the temptation to get down on one knee. It would freak Patrick the hell out, and Pete doubts his bum knee could take the abuse. He decides against any more grand gestures at this stage. He's always relied on his words, they'll have to be enough. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you since, uh. Pretty much the first time you walked into my office, actually."

 

"Oh, Jesus."

 

"I have come all the way out here," Pete persists, "To the middle of the wilderness--"

 

"Evanston."

 

"-- _the wilderness_ to ask you if you'd like to have dinner with me sometime. What do you say?"

 

Patrick rolls his eyes. "Alright. I guess you'd better come in." He smiles a sharp, sly smile that goes to Pete's head like champagne. " _Sir_."

 

 

 

 

When the doorbell rings at 10pm on Christmas eve, Brendon is expecting carol-singers, or maybe even a couple of very enthusiastic Mormon kids. He is not expecting Spencer Smith, looking like hell with unwashed hair and deep, dark shadows under his eyes.

 

"Spencer? What the hell are you doing here? Oh my god, come in, you're gonna freeze," Brendon says, stepping aside to let Spencer in. "I think Ryan's asleep, but he won't mind if you wake him up--"

 

"Ryan's asleep?" says Spencer, looking slightly put out. "Oh. I had a whole... thing planned, but whatever. That works."

 

Brendon notices the flashcards tucked under Spencer's arm and he wants to laugh, he wants to cry. "Come inside, asshole," he says, again. "I don't care if you're not cold, I'm gonna freeze. Please?"

 

Reluctantly, Spencer steps inside, and Brendon shuts the door behind him.

 

"I wanted to apologize for the other day," Spencer says, and it sounds like he's practiced this speech. "I was totally out of line. I won't--I can't be sorry for how I feel, but I shouldn't have dumped it all on you like that. It wasn't fair."

 

"It wasn't--?" Brendon sputters incredulously. "I cornered you! _That_ wasn't fair."

 

Spencer pins him with a look. "Please," he says. "Let me... I just need to say this, okay? Then I'll be out of your hair."

 

Chastened, Brendon closes his mouth and mimes zipping it up.

 

"Dork," Spencer mutters, but he looks like he's on the verge of tears. He scrubs his hand across his eyes. "Okay. I know you're married. I know you're happy. I know you make Ryan happy, and that's kind of a big deal, so." He manages a watery smile. "So you know I'm not... I don't expect anything, is what I'm saying. Actually, if you could pretend you never found out, that'd be great. I just - I wanted to tell you it's all over. It's been going on long enough. This is me, getting over it."

 

There's a moment of thick, heavy silence, and then a soft voice in the hallway says, "Spence?"

 

Spencer jumps like he's had an electric shock, eyes wide, every line of his body tense and guilty. He looks, in other words, like a total flight risk. Brendon grabs his sleeve as Ryan pads into the kitchen.

 

"Okay," Brendon says. "I'm gonna say this and you have to promise not to freak out, alright? I told Ryan."

 

Spencer's face goes from zero to livid so fast it makes Brendon's head spin. "You--"

 

"But it's okay!" Brendon says. He thought this part might be tricky, so he wants to get it over with as quickly as possible. "First, Ryan totally already knew."

 

Spencer drops his head into his hands. "Oh god."

 

"Yeah," says Ryan. "Dude, I've known you since you were eleven. You think I don't know how you get when you're into someone?"

 

"Ry," Spencer says, raising his head to look pleadingly at Ryan. "I'm sorry, I never meant to--"

 

"Oh my god, will you stop apologizing?" Ryan rolls his eyes. "We're trying to tell you we don't mind."

 

Spencer stops dead, as if someone has taken his batteries out. "You don't?" he says, slowly, like he thinks he's misunderstood.

 

"No," says Brendon patiently. "And we think you should come upstairs with us. And take your pants off," he adds, just in case he wasn't quite clear.

 

"Dumbass," Ryan says, fondly, and Brendon can actually see the moment when Spencer starts to believe them.

 

 

 

 

Ray holds out until boxing day. He knows Christmas happened, remembers the four of them opening gifts and eating until they couldn't move and sprawling out in front of the TV to watch A New Hope, but it feels distant, like something that happened to someone in a movie. Boxing day dawns cold and bright and beautiful, so they wrap the kids up in coats and scarves and mittens and drag them to the playground for a little while. It wears them out, because they both fall asleep in the living room well before their respective bedtimes and have to be carried upstairs to bed.

 

Which is how Ray finds himself sharing the couch with Mikey, neither of them really watching whatever is happening on the TV. This is it, Ray tells himself. It's time.

 

"Hey," he says, quietly. "Can we talk?"

 

Mikey blinks, surprised. "Sure. What's up?"

 

Ray hesitates. He's thought this conversation out a dozen times in the privacy of his own head, but doing it for real is much more difficult.

 

"Is there..." he starts. "Is there anything you want to tell me?"

 

"No," says Mikey slowly. "What's the matter? You're being weird."

 

Ray sighs. He tries to dredge up some kind of emotional response - anger, sadness, anything - but he's drawing a blank. He's stormed himself out, he's got no strength left for it.

 

"I found the vinyl," he admits, finally, and it feels like stepping off a cliff. "I know about you and Bill."

 

Mikey's face changes instantly, confusion flipping to horror. "You-- oh my god, no, we're not... Ray, nothing happened, I swear."

 

Ray was half-expecting him to deny it, but that doesn't make it any easier to hear. "You don't have to lie to me," he says wearily. "It's--" he stops. He was going to say it's okay but it's not, of course it's not, maybe never will be again.

 

"I mean it," Mikey insists. "Shit. I never... nothing happened, okay? How could you think I'd do that to you and the kids?"

 

Ray is finally starting to feel something. He's angry now. "I don't know! You suddenly clam up about work, he's all over you at the party, and now you're getting him expensive Christmas presents and throwing the L word around! What was I supposed to think, Mikey?"

 

Mikey grimaces. "Fuck," he says. "Okay, no, that's... that looks bad. But I can explain, I promise."

 

"So explain!" says Ray, throwing his hands up. "Explain what was so totally un-suspicious that you still felt like you had to hide it from me!"

 

"Okay," says Mikey. He grabs Ray's hand and looks him dead in the eye. "Okay. I've been kind of quiet about work because Century isn't doing so good." He takes a breath, and it sounds unsteady. "In fact, we're really in the shit. Three of our biggest acts flopped this winter and none of the others have done well enough to make up for it. We've got major stakeholders flying out for meetings in the new year. I could lose my job."

 

Ray groans, frustrated, and shoves his hand through his hair. That, at least, he's prepared to believe. "So why didn't you just tell me, Mikes? Come on, we're supposed to be a team."

 

"I'm sorry," says Mikey, unhappily. "You do so much here, I didn't wanna give you anything else to worry about. And the vinyl was, uh." He laughs a little, short and sharp. "The Great Prank War Armistice of 2005 is over. We all chipped in, we were going to give it to Bill and tell him his weird ex finally caught up with him."

 

Ray isn't entirely convinced. "That's an expensive prank."

 

"Yeah, well, his ex is a weird dude. We needed something that would work as an apology gift as well when he realized we were fucking with him. Like, half the label and most of the bands are in on it."

 

"And the party?"

 

"He's handsy," Mikey says, treating Ray to a flashback in vivid technicolor and full surround sound.

 

"He's interested in you," Ray says. "Whether you want to acknowledge it or not. At best, you were leading him on. _At best_. You're his boss, Mikey, for heaven's sake."

 

Mikey slumps deeper into the couch cushion. "I think I kind of knew," he says, very quietly.

 

"And you liked the attention?"

 

Mikey makes a move that's part nod, part shrug. "Maybe. Is that stupid?"

 

He looks so pathetic that Ray relents, and wraps an arm around his shoulders. Mikey leans into him, warm and familiar and home.

 

"Really stupid," Ray tells him, and sighs. "But I get it."

 

For a long moment, they're both silent. Then Ray says, in a soft, guilty voice, "I thought you might be getting bored with me."

 

"Shut up." Mikey turns his head, gets both of his hands in Ray's hair and kisses him hard. "You shut the fuck up," he says indistinctly into Ray's mouth. "Jesus. Don't you ever say that."

 

"I'm sorry," Ray mumbles, as Mikey swings one leg over Ray's and settles himself in Ray's lap.

 

"You--fuck, stop that, I'm the one who's sorry," Mikey says fiercely. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I'm sorry I--mmph."

 

Ray kisses him again, and he stops talking. They stay like that for a while, making out like teenagers, and Ray feels like the luckiest motherfucker in the world, just like he did the first time Mikey kissed him. Ray remembers it vividly, 3am, both of them stretched out on Mikey's bedroom floor, Mikey's face haloed by the blue-white light of the TV screen, the moment of freefall before Mikey slowly leaned in and ghosted his lips over Ray's. He runs his hands down Mikey's sides, and Mikey's breath hitches.

 

"I mean it," Mikey says, pulling back. "You're, fucking... you're the best thing that ever happened to me."

 

Ray feels like he's been sucker punched. Mikey loves him, he knows that, but Mikey isn't the most demonstrative of guys, and when he comes out with stuff like this, it tends to leave Ray breathless. It's overwhelming, crashing over him in waves.

 

"And I know I was a fucking idiot," Mikey carries on, leaning forward to press his forehead against Ray's. "You think you can forgive me?"

 

Ray almost wants to laugh. He feels so light he could float away if it wasn't for Mikey's weight over him, grounding him. He thought it was all over. Mikey still loves him. Mikey's still here. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, god. Always."

 

Mikey does laugh, then, short and breathless. Maybe, like Ray, he feels like his chest is too full for him to breathe. He dips his head to kiss Ray again, one of his hands tight on Ray's shoulder, the other in his hair.

 

"I should've just fucking asked you about it," Ray says. Now he understands, now he believes, it all seems so stupid, like a nightmare that loses its teeth as soon as the sun comes up. "Jesus. I was so scared. I thought..." suddenly, he's so choked-up he can't even get the words out.

 

"Never," Mikey says. He cracks a shaky smile. "You thought I'd throw all this away for, what, some twinky intern?"

 

Ray shrugs, embarrassed. "He would've been your type, back in the day."

 

Mikey snorts. "Yeah, fifteen years ago, maybe. Then I got hitched to this guy who showed me the error of my ways."

 

Ray laughs. He kisses Mikey again, slow and lazy, just because he can, luxuriating in the knowledge that this is his.

 

"Love you," Mikey says quietly, his eyes fixed on Ray's.

 

"Love you too," says Ray. He runs his hands up Mikey's back, and Mikey leans into the touch, his eyes falling shut. Ray is so goddamn happy he feels like he must be glowing with it, all lit up like a Christmas tree. "Hey," he murmurs, as Mikey mouths at the side of his neck.

 

"What?" Mikey says, his voice buzzing against Ray's skin in a way that makes him shiver.

 

Ray kisses his forehead and pulls him closer. "Merry Christmas."


End file.
